


In Sleep He Sang to Me

by MysteryKitty



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Early Days, F/F, F/M, Father Figures, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, POV Female Character, Self-Discovery, Sexuality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 04:44:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6839518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MysteryKitty/pseuds/MysteryKitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tick. Tick. Tick.<br/>Walking to the middle of the room, it started again, a little louder this time.<br/>“Christine. Christine.” Someone was singing. It was a man’s voice. A soothing melody, a voice which called to me, and spoke my name. The voice grew stronger, but never louder than a lullaby. Again and again it sang my name. Climbing up and down in the room, I searched for the sweet and talented voice.</p><p>Tick. Tick. Tick.<br/>I pressed my ear against the wall nearest to my bed. The singing stopped. <br/>Imagining my father on the other side of the room, I stared longingly and rested my hands on the plain white wall. “Father…” A warm drop of tear rolled down my cheek. </p><p>“…have you sent the Angel of Music to me?”</p><p>Tick. Tick.</p><p>Tick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You were all that mattered

“When I’m in heaven, child, I promise I shall send you the Angel of Music.”

I watched as my father’s eyes slowly closed, never to open again. My hand ached to touch his face. An urge, so strong, that I could barely resist. The hollow weight in my chest grew bigger, deeper into the bright light he once filled in my soul. Oh, my dear father. What am I to do now that you are gone? My guardian…my companion…my Angel of Music.

Madame Giry rested her cold, skinny hand on my shoulder. She was always so cold and sharp. I shivered. Tears blinded all my senses. My longing for his warmth grows immensely. Please, father…let me see you smile once more. Let me feel your warm embrace. Hum your beautiful lullaby and awake me from this endless nightmare!

“I’m sorry for your loss, Christine. Your Father was an impeccable musician.” Yes, my father was, and still am, an amazing musician. Of course, a great musician is more than just flawless technique. He brought joy to the ones he played for. He brought hope and happiness, and whenever I looked at him with his magical violin, I knew I would never grow tired of my life. But now, my core is gone. The flowers have faded, the fire no longer burning, and as for me, Christine Daae, will no longer find a man to love so dearly ever again.

Madame Giry’s gently turned me around, guiding me towards the corridor. “You need some rest, my dear. You shall sleep with Meg from now on” she said softly. I listened to our footsteps tapping on the old wooden floors of the Opera House, my mind still in that room watching him in his peaceful sleep. 

We enter a dimly lit room, the oil lamps flicker in the darkness. My eyes faintly see two identical wooden beds with a small cupboard in between. The bed near the dressing table in the corner of the room laid a girl with blonde hair about my age, fast asleep. As I crept towards my bed, I hear a gentle click of the closing door. Tucking myself in for the first time, loneliness filled my eyes again. With my eyes tightly shut, I waited for sleep to numb the pain. As I drifted off, I heard him for the first time, in my dreams. “Christine, Christine…”


	2. A gentle smile with a wild soul

As I slowly opened my eyes to the sunrise peeking through the curtains, memories of last night started coming back to me. The cold shattering weight grew within me once more and my eyes began to water again. But as the warmth of the sun tickled my left cheek, I turned. Sleeping on the bed next to me was the most beautiful girl I had ever laid my eyes on. Her golden curls sparkled under the morning light, ruffled slightly after a night of restless sleep. Her face, oh so peacefully asleep. Long eyelashes rested on the pinks of her cheekbones. My lips mimicked the way hers was, slightly apart and trembling, as if she was trying to speak. Meg Giry, what a beauty.

Sweet tingling sensations replaced the weight in my heart. I couldn’t help but smile to myself, and felt a sense of calm and joy I thought I would never be able to feel again.

The realization caused a rush of guilt to hit me. How could you be smiling? Father is gone. He is gone forever! You are alone, are you happy now? My mind swirled in a panic, my breath quickened and my eyes were blinded of lonely winter nights.

“Christine?” I looked up. The images faded away and what stared at me was Meg’s face, filled with worry. “Christine, are you alright?” Her voice sounded like a melody to my ears. I watched her, lost in her beauty. Her eyebrows furrowed and she pursed her lips gently.

“Christine!” she said sharply, as if she was attempting to wake me from my sleep.  
“Yes? Oh, yes, I’m all right. Good morning, Meg. I’m sorry.” I stuttered as I blinked back to reality. Looking down with a slight blush on my face, I whispered, “I just miss him”. Silence followed through, and then I heard small shuffles of Meg’s blanket and suddenly her hand was on mine. I looked up as she stood by my bed; her face was so gentle with kindness.  
“I know, Christine. We miss him too, but you have me, and Mama, and the whole opera house. We are all family. I promise we’ll never leave you alone.” With a gentle tug on my hand and a charming smile on her face, she skipped to the window as I got out of bed. A swift push of the curtains, and the room was filled with brightness. Meg twirled in her nightgown, and I was hypnotized by the way her hair flowed. “I’m going to get us some delicious tea and breakfast!” And off she went. I smiled to myself. Meg Giry, a gentle smile with a wild soul.


	3. Her father promised her...

Minutes passed as I sat on my bed, watching the door; still mesmerized by the way Meg danced to the window. The clock ticked on. I stood and slowly walked towards the window.

Tick. Tick. Tick.  
I watched as two little birds playfully pecked at each other.

Tick .Tick. Tick.  
One darted away as the other stood on the windowsill, it looked confused by the sudden movement of its companion. I leaned against the window, finding the friend who flew away.

Tick. Tick. Tick.  
“Christine. Christine” a voice whispered from afar, behind me.   
The lonely bird flew away and I turned. Surprised by the sight of the room with no one but myself, I trembled under my breath “hello?”

Tick. Tick. Tick.  
Walking to the middle of the room, it started again, a little louder this time.  
“Christine. Christine.” Someone was singing. It was a man’s voice. A soothing melody, a voice which called to me, and spoke my name. The voice grew stronger, but never louder than a lullaby. Again and again it sang my name. Climbing up and down in the room, I searched for the sweet and talented voice.

Tick. Tick. Tick.  
I pressed my ear against the wall nearest to my bed. The singing stopped.   
Imagining my father on the other side of the room, I stared longingly and rested my hands on the plain white wall. “Father…” A warm drop of tear rolled down my cheek. 

“…have you sent the Angel of Music to me?”

Tick. Tick.

Tick.


	4. The angel of music sings songs in my head

It’s his funeral today.

I wanted to go but Madame Giry says it would be better if I didn’t, something to do with my mental wellbeing. Oh how I longed to see his face again, but since Madame Giry is technically my guardian now, I have no choice but to stay in my room and wait until everyone comes back from sending my beloved father away.

Sitting on my bed, I played with the brown ribbons that weaved through my skirt. Memories of father ran through my mind. The days when we would travel around France, performing from one village to the next. People would gather around father and I, happily dancing and cheering as he played the violin. More memories pass, and I’m sitting by a fireplace with him, sleepily watching the crackling of the wood and the licks of the flame. In his arms, he would sing to me softly.

So here I was, sat on my bed. Indulging myself in the memories of father, in the warmth of his arms, in the harmonies of his voice. Lost in thought, I began singing to myself.

**_Little Lotte, let her mind wander._ **   
**_Little Lotte thought, “Am I fonder of dolls or of goblins or of shoes?_**   
**_Or of riddles or frocks? Or of chocolates?”_**   
**_No, “What I loved best,” Lottie said, “was when I’m asleep in my bed.”_**

Tap.  
A faint noise cracked on the wooden floor, behind the wall.

**_And the angel of music sings songs in my head…_ **

I turned. A voice, the same voice I heard before, was singing along with me! I tried to keep calm.

**_The angel of music sings songs in my head._ **

I waited, such intoxication in his voice! Please sing again, I begged in my mind.

Tap.  
Was he leaving? No, I must find him! I jumped to my feet and rushed to the room next door, my angel must still be there. My heart pounded in excitement, my hands trembled as they scrambled to open the door.

The room was cold and empty. I stood in the utter darkness. With my fingers, I traced a long scratch on the wall that separated the voice and me. Have I been imagining everything all along? Did my longing for father turn me into a lunatic?

I walked back to my room in disappointment, playing back the duet we sang so gracefully together. When I entered, something was different. A faint smell of cologne swirled in the air, the windows were now closed, and something was my bed. Five delicate rose petals placed neatly on my pillow. Gently, I sat, careful not to disturb the arrangement of the flowers, I played with the soft, red petals between my fingers.

Moments pass, and people who attended the funeral returned. As I looked up from the rose petals, I saw Meg plopping herself onto her bed after a long day, and Madame Giry at the door, her eyes filled with horror as if I was holding a dagger dripping with blood.


End file.
